04/23/2025
Life is truly like a box of chocolates. But itās not just the variety of flavors that get youāitās the unexpected centers. Some are sweet, some are bitter, and some leave a mark youāll never forget.
I learned that the hard way when I was just 16.
The woman who raised me, the one I called Momāmy grandmotherāhad a stroke. One minute she was up and moving, and the next, she collapsed, hitting her head on the sharp corner of her dresser. That image is burned into my memory. It changed everything.
The stroke took away her ability to walk. She was hospitalized, and not long after, she was placed in hospice. We had no idea what that truly meant. No one explained that hospice care means a doctor has signed off that the patient has six months or less to live. Nobody told us that. We were just trying to keep our heads above waterādoing the best we could with what little we knew.
But my grandmotherā¦ she wasnāt giving up. She was determined to get better. I remember the day she took her first step againāher face lit up like a child taking their very first steps. She was so proud. So full of hope. She believed she could recover. And so did I.
But behind the scenes, hospice wasnāt built for healing. It wasnāt built to help her recover. It was built to make her comfortable on her way out. We didnāt know that either. She kept asking for a physical therapist, and so did my mom. But those requests were never honored. She wasnāt given the care she needed to truly fight.
She never stopped believing. Even when her body was tired, her faith never wavered. And thatās what makes it even harder to write this. Because one day, just like that, she was gone.
I remember the call like it was yesterday. My body went numb. It felt like a brick had dropped into my chest and crushed me all the way down to my toes. We were not ready. Not mentally. Not emotionally. And definitely not financially.
We didnāt have life insurance for her. We didnāt know what to do. So, like many families, we leaned on relatives. Iāll never forget sitting in that funeral home, hearing peopleāpeople she lovedāask how much money we had to contribute. The answer was nothing. Not a single dollar.
Then one of her nieces said, āLetās cremate her. Itās the cheapest option.ā
That moment broke me.
I saw red. Then I saw black. I literally blacked out for a second. My face flushed with anger. But I couldnāt even speak up because I didnāt know anything about costs or insurance or what was even possible. I just remembered what she said. Sheād told me more than once, āWhen I go, I want a real funeral. I want to pop out that casket and scare yāall one last time.ā She was joking, but she meant it. She wanted a celebration. Not an ash-filled urn.
Thankfully, they didnāt cremate her. But the damage was already done.
It wasnāt until I was 21, sitting in training for a customer service job at Blue Cross Blue Shield of Florida, that everything clicked. The trainer casually mentioned that to be placed in hospice, a doctor has to certify that someone has less than six months to live. My heart dropped. That was the moment I started putting the pieces together. That was the moment I woke up.
From that day forward, I stopped working just for a paycheck. That job became a classroom. And I was getting paid to learn. I soaked up everything I could about insuranceāhealth, life, all of it. Because I made a promise to myself: No one in my circle would go through what we went through.
I felt like we failed my grandmother. Not out of neglect, but out of not knowing. If I knew then what I know now, she wouldāve had the care she needed. She wouldāve had access to the best physical therapy, a quality recovery plan, and a life insurance policy that couldāve helped her buy that house she always dreamed of. She couldāve left behind a legacy for her grandchildren, instead of guilt and grief.
She tried her best to save from her SSDI checks, but it was never enough. We didnāt know how to grow money. We didnāt know how to prepare. We didnāt know what questions to ask.
And thatās why I do what I do now.
My mission is simple: to protect lives. When I say protect, I donāt just mean selling you a policy. I mean making sure families are informed, equipped, and empowered. I mean helping people avoid the same pain I lived through. I mean making sure you donāt have to feel that helplessness when the worst happens.
I miss my grandmother every single day. And even though I was young and didnāt know what I didnāt know, I carry the weight of that experience in everything I do. Itās not a burdenāitās my fuel. Itās my purpose.
And Iām here to make sure your family is protected in ways mine wasnāt.
Have you ever experienced something similar? A loss that changed everything or a moment that shifted your perspective?
š Drop your story in the comments. š£ Share this with someone who needs to start the conversation. š¬ Letās keep each other informed, uplifted, and protectedātogether.
Because you donāt have to go through it alone. And you donāt have to wait to get it right. @
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